


Staring at the hotel ceiling.

by Heyashes



Category: Teen Wolf (TV) RPF
Genre: Angst, Dylan POV, Heartache, M/M, Mentions of alcohol, Post-Break Up, Self-Loathing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-15 06:58:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3437843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heyashes/pseuds/Heyashes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’re on the bed, using your arms as a pillow just like you’ve been for the past 4 hours.<br/>Staring at the ceiling.<br/>Trying to breathe.<br/>Trying to see where you went wrong and he went right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Staring at the hotel ceiling.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know guys, I blame this on Rixton and their song Hotel Ceiling.  
> I come up with weird shit when it's 3 am. Sorry about this.  
> Also I now take requests on tumblr so feel free to come and say hi: boollshit.tumblr.com/ask
> 
> Again, sorry about this. All the love xx

 

You’re not going out tonight. Everybody has already left to go to some club everyone in town is talking about, but you’re not.

You’re on the bed, using your arms as a pillow just like you’ve been for the past 4 hours.

Staring at the ceiling.

Trying to breathe.

Trying to see where you went wrong and he went right.

You haven’t showered in two days, but it’s not like you’ve left the room. It’s not like you’ve spoke to anyone, or let anyone see you.

It’s not like you care.

You can’t stop seeing him.

In the corner of your eye, lying next to you on a mattress that is too big for one person.

You keep smelling him.

On the smooth sheets that feel like they’re going to suffocate you if you don’t kick them away.

You keep hearing him.

In the laughter of some random guy walking in front of the hotel, under your opened window.

 

But he’s not here.

He’s in California. He’s where he belongs, while you’re here: in a hotel room that looks exactly like every other room with a cast that just isn’t the right one. No matter how friends you’ve become with them.

They’ll never be family.

 _He_ was family.

He was.

Now he’s just grief.

Grief, and nostalgia, and heartache.

He’s also hate.

Towards yourself, for making him go away from you. For being the responsible for those gorgeous green eyes disappearing from your life.

 

You take another swig from the bottle of vodka on the side table. The third of the night, actually.

You’re going to be sick if you don’t keep it down and you know it.

You deserve it.

You know you do: because you made him sick. Of you, of waiting, of hurting.

 

You put work first.

You had the chances to make it big, and you knew it. So you put work first.

 

It’s been a month.

A month with no texts, no calls, no I love you’s.

31 days of self-loathing and panic attacks.

 

Because you’re lost without him.

Because all the prizes, all the interviews, all the money can’t compete with Tyler’s laugh. With his eyes. With his arms around you.

But it’s much too late now.

 

You take another sip and fight back the burning sensation in your stomach and the tears.

You finally close your eyes and hope to not wake up.

**Author's Note:**

> PS I'm pretty sure 3 bottles of vodka would kill anyone but let's pretend Dylan has a strong liver.


End file.
